


Reminder (That You're Not Alone)

by DarkBeauty_890



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Bellamy taking care of Clarke, F/M, bonding over injuries, clarke being stubborn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-11
Updated: 2014-05-11
Packaged: 2018-01-24 08:48:27
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,518
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1598855
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DarkBeauty_890/pseuds/DarkBeauty_890
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It was new; this feeling of begrudging camaraderie. Of not feeling the need to constantly be on guard against Bellamy’s whims. (And because even the great Clarke occasionally needs someone to remind her to take care of herself.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Reminder (That You're Not Alone)

**Author's Note:**

> Reminder (that you’re not alone)
> 
> Summary: It was new; this feeling of begrudging camaraderie. Of not feeling the need to constantly be on guard against Bellamy’s whims. And because even the great Clarke occasionally needs someone to remind her to take care of herself.

“Are you alright?” 

The question is gruff- a perfunctory response to the news of Clarke’s injury. She had been asked the same four times in the thirty seconds it took to walk bleeding from her place at the far end of the currently-being-rebuilt wall to the Drop Ship. 

But it’s who’s asking the question, and of course how well she can read into the actual concern in Bellamy Blake’s eyes that make Clarke respond with more than the standard ‘I’m fine’ she’s adopted when the spotlight gets turned on her rather than her patients.

“I think I’m going to need stitches.” She errantly waves her bandaged hand in Bellamy’s general direction, before reaching to grab cloth strips and alcohol she will have to use to sterilize the cut. “But more than anything, it’s my pride that’s been wounded the deepest.”

She thinks she sees a flash of amusement in Bellamy’s eyes, but it’s gone in an instant. He moves into the Med Bay more fully instead of hovering at the entrance. Two of the younger kids, a boy and a girl, look up from their corner of the room as Bellamy walked in. With a brief glance at each other, they were both up and out of the room within seconds, leaving Bellamy and Clarke to themselves.  
“Don’t worry about it. You’re hardly the first to cut yourself working on the wall.”

“I know,” Clarke sighs, screwing open the top of the Monty’s moonshine. “I get at least four a day with gashes that need to be stitched up. Brent nearly cut his finger off about two hours ago.”  
Bellamy rolls his eyes, “Brent needs to concentrate less on Dana’s ass and more on the machete he’s working with.”

Clarke notes the disdain in his voice. Bellamy has never been one to suffer fools and she could only imagine the words between the two boys when Clarke released Brent back out into camp. Despite the pity she had felt when Brent had walked into the Drop Ship green-faced and bloody, she was inclined to agree with Bellamy’s impatience for careless errors. Which made her own so much more embarrassing.

“Yeah well the only thing he will be concentrating on now is trying to keep his index finger attached to his hand.”

The share a moment of easy silence as Clarke popped open her needle kit. 

It was new; this feeling of begrudging camaraderie. Of not feeling the need to constantly be on guard against Bellamy’s whims. It’s not that she was ever truly afraid of him, but if there was one thing their trip outside the walls of camp had proven, it was just how much easier she could rest without having to watch him out of the corner of her eye. In the week since their return, they’ve easily established a truce of sorts, with Clarke no longer publicly undermining Bellamy’s leadership and Bellamy including more and more of Clarke’s opinion into his decisions.  
Their leadership was a work in progress, but miles away from their hostile relations when they first arrived. 

Which led them to this point. 

“You need any help with that?” Clarke looked up sharply from her process of sterilizing the sewing needle used for stiches. Bellamy gestured to her hand, “I may not be a doctor, but I’m not a bad stitch.”  
“That’s right,” Clarke murmured, considering his offer. “Your mother was a seamstress right?”

Bellamy’s cool, blank face flattened. “Among other things.”

She didn’t know what else he was referring to, but Clarke vaguely remembered the nice woman who stitched and hemmed many of her and her family’s clothes. 

With a brief moment of hesitation, Clarke offered him the needle and her bleeding hand. Whether or not he looked relieved at her acceptance of his help, well that was his business. Admitting trust and showing it were two separate things after all.

Clarke hopped onto the expanse of metal that had quickly become her operating table and tried to ignore the sudden drumming of her heart as she watched Bellamy prepare.

Bellamy doused his hands in the moonshine and accepted the needle, threading black thread to the end. Clarke noticed how his hands didn’t shake at all, even as he stepped between her legs to get better access and gripped her injured hand in his own. On the contrary, Clarke’s own hand tremored for a moment as Bellamy’s thumb brushed the inside of her wrist. 

“Stay still.” he commanded lowly, slipping the needle into her palm. Clarke bit her lip to keep from crying out. Pain medication was a luxury here, not something to be wasted on careless errors like slipping up with knives. Nevertheless, the needle weaving through her skin hurt like a bitch and Clarke stared longingly toward the crate with her pain relievers. What she wouldn’t give for medicine from the Ark. 

“How’s your face?” She asked, solely to distract herself from her hand. “You still look like crap.”

It was true, the scrapes had been cleaned and medicine applied-by Clarke herself, she might add- but the purplish blue bruising still dominated the right side of his face. Bellamy didn’t seem at all put off by the bluntness of the question, instead he glanced up at her face once before refocusing on her cut, “Stiff. And I could say the same about you. When was the last time you slept?”

“Sleep?” Clarke shut her eyes tightly at a particular painful throb. Bellamy murmured and apology and didn’t say anything when Clarke’s good hand came up to grasp his jacket. “What is this concept of sleep?”

“It’s not a joke, Princess. You look like you haven’t rested in days. Whenever I see you, you’re either tending to some idiot’s burns or out plotting an insane mission with your crew.”  
“Careful Bellamy, you’re beginning to sound like you care.”

He didn’t have a response to that. He finished her stiches in silence, before tying the cloth strips around Clarke’s palm. When that was finished, Clarke shifted off the table, feeling acutely how close it put her and Bellamy’s bodies together as he remained between where her legs had parted. 

When she moved to slip around him, Bellamy’s hand shot out to encircle her wrist. He held it tightly in his palm, not releasing it when she tugged.

Bellamy grit his teeth and shook a couple dark curls from his face, “You have to take better care of yourself, Clarke.” Clarke raised her head a bit to meet his eyes when he used her first name. While it became increasingly more common for him to abandon his favorite nickname in favor of her given name, it was still always a shock with the depth of intensity he could put into one syllable. “I mean it. The camp can’t survive out here if you’re dropping of exhaustion all over the place. We need you well rested, well fed, and not looking like a zombie.”

She broke their gaze and gave a quick nod. “Okay.”

“Okay,” he repeated and moved back, allowing her plenty of room to move. 

She didn’t and he took that as a sign to say what he had meant to tell her since their return from outside the wall. 

“Look, I may not be Spacewalker or Octavia or whoever it is you talk to around camp, but I’m… here.” He ran a hand through his hair and shrugged. “It seems only fair right? I mean after what happened with Dax and Jaha and everything; I practically aired all of my dirty laundry out to dry with you.”

He finally sighed when she made no attempt to respond. 

It was all too strange. Just two weeks ago, Clarke was dangling over a pit watching as Bellamy struggled to decide whether to let her live or die and now they were here, together doing…well wasn’t that the question?

“Thank you.” Clarke finally replied. For the offer, for the help with her hand, for not letting her die that day over the pit; for a lot of things. She sensed he knew that, with the heated way his gaze locked on her own. Clarke felt something in her stomach tighten, something that felt both the same and ten times stronger than it had when Finn looked at her that first day. “For… well you know.”

But now was so not the time for that. She and Bellamy barely liked each other on their best days, attraction was a complication their fragile alliance couldn’t afford at the moment. Despite how plentiful the attraction seemed to be.

Also growing increasingly common, it looked like Bellamy was on the same page. He looked away from her and backed toward the entrance of the Drop Ship. 

“Bellamy.” Her voice was low pitched, hardly loud enough for even Clarke to hear herself, let alone Bellamy from across the room. But still, his face turned to her in question. “I- Nothing. Never mind. Thanks again.”

Bellamy shrugged one last time and was halfway out the door by the time she heard his reply, “It’s what partners do, Princess.”

**Author's Note:**

> Okay so that was my first fan fiction in probably about two years. Give or take. I don’t know what it is about Bellamy and Clarke, but their entire dynamic fascinates me. Obviously enough to get back in the game, so to speak.  
> And I ship them. Hard. 
> 
> Anyway, I hope some of you enjoyed my little one-shot. I just realized now that it is two in the morning as I finished this, so mistakes are all blamed on my sleep-deprived mind.


End file.
